


One Way or Another

by james



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Gen, Humor, Mission a Go-Go, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:55:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22500568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/james/pseuds/james
Summary: Napoleon and Gaby have a new mission, and Illya isn't going to like it.
Comments: 18
Kudos: 57
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 5





	One Way or Another

**Author's Note:**

  * For [firelord65](https://archiveofourown.org/users/firelord65/gifts).



The front door of Illya's apartment opened slowly, and Illya himself stood in the doorway, looming impressively, with a highly disapproving expression on his face.

“What are you two doing here?” he asked, in short, clipped tones. They'd been working hard on his accent, and sometimes he could lose it when he spoke German or Japanese, but otherwise Napoleon was at a complete loss as to how to make this undercover spy able to work _undercover_ as anything but a giant angry Russian.

“You don't seem entirely happy to see us,” Napoleon said, giving Gaby an offended look. She was seated in the one-room flat's only chair, next to the only, and very small, table. Napoleon had considered lounging back on the tiny cot-like bed while they waited, but one look at it had convinced him he'd be risking his spine if he tried it. “Or surprised,” he added, feigning shock and a tiny bit of hurt.

Illya glared at him in that special way Napoleon had come to learn was reserved especially for him. “You trip wire on your way in, on purpose. You speak into first bug on wall,” Illya gestured at the bug U.N.C.L.E. technicians had placed for security and monitoring. Napoleon had found and moved all of the ones in his own place, leaving them in Mrs. Dorchester's modest abode two floors below his penthouse. So far no one had bothered to replace them, but Waverly did occasionally sigh at him in disapproval.

Gaby grinned, just a bit, glancing at Napoleon who'd said a quick, grunting, _Zdravstvuj,_ in as close an imitation of Illya's voice as he could manage into the bug. 

“You say very rude things in second bug,” Illya continued, jerking his thumb towards where Napoleon had repeated a very lovely insult he'd had hurled at him once as he was escaping the Russian Embassy in France (clutching a small but delightful token from the Ambassador's wife).

“And you,” he finally turned to Gaby. “Say beautiful things in third bug.” His frown lessened slightly, which Napoleon thought was wholly unfair. She'd told Napoleon to be quiet just as he was describing the pitiful state of Illya's place.

“Now, see here,” Napoleon began, and Illya frowned back at him. Napoleon rolled his eyes. “I keep telling you, your face is going to freeze like that someday. I was only telling the truth. Why do you live in such a tiny place with absolutely no furniture, no comfort at all--”

“I should live in penthouse like yours, with room for seven families to share?” Illya interrupted.

Napoleon laughed. “ _Seven_ , hardly. One family, perhaps, although ideally each member of the family should have their own wing. Separate bedrooms at the least for husband and wife, a separate house entirely for the children. That way everyone can conduct their affairs in peace.”

“Why are you here?” Illya asked again, finally stepping inside the room, his head nearly brushing the light fixture that hung from the center of the room which served as kitchen, dining room, and entertainment room. 

“We can't just drop in and say hello?” Napoleon asked, giving him a bright smile, mostly because he knew how much it irritated Kuryakin.

“If it were job, I would be called in, or she at least would say as soon as I arrive. Which means--” His eyes narrowed. “Two of you do not socialize, not unless there is something...up.” 

“There is something up,” Gaby said. She stood up and gave the chair a quick frown, which Napoleon knew meant she agreed with him about Illya's apartment even if she wouldn't say so out loud. She never took sides with either of them, in their attempts to annoy one another, although sometimes she was moved to dunk them _both_ in a handy lake or garbage truck.

Napoleon was still sore about that, he'd ruined one of his favorite suits, and seeing Illya sputtering beside him hadn't really helped all that much. No, that was untrue – it had helped a great deal, listening to Peril sputter and grumble horrible things under his breath about untrustworthy women. Of course then she'd made them both tea, splashed liberally with whiskey, after they'd made their way back to the hotel room and gotten showered and cleaned off. She'd said something about them learning their lesson about bickering during a mission, which Napoleon knew would never be true and from the tiny smile he'd seen on Illya's face, knew the other man felt the same.

“Waverly said in his last meeting that you needed practice--” Gaby began.

“No, no,” Illya was backing up, but he'd let the door close behind him and his heels hit wood.

“You have to admit, your undercover skills need polishing,” Napoleon added. The last mission he and Gaby had had to come to Illya's rescue twice because the man simply had no finesse when it came to trying to be charming.

“He's asked us to assist you,” Gaby said calmly, as though Illya weren't trying desperately to escape his apartment, hand scrambling for the doorknob.

“We're taking you out to a club.” Napoleon clapped his hands gleefully. He didn't expect this would be at all successful, though it would be nice if Illya could learn to loosen up even slightly. Still, it would be fun torturing Illya and they might actually cram something new into his skillset. If nothing else they would be dining and drinking on U.N.C.L.E.'s tab and once the night was declared over, Napoleon expected to have one or two lovely women of his own to take home.

“We don't expect you to charm all the ladies, but if we could get you to stop scaring them...” He tilted his head at Illya, knowing the man would remember getting a handbag over the head two missions previous.

“It is not necessary that I know such things,” Illya said, just as he'd insisted to Waverly. “It is job for two of you, to be charming and sweet. I will come in after and break down doors.”

Which was exactly what had happened at the end of everything, three weeks ago, when Gaby had rescued the poor frightened woman Illya had been trying to compliment, only to end up with herself and Napoleon tied up and locked in a closet waiting for a large Russian to rescue them. Which was welcome, though Napoleon could have done without the smug expression on said Russian's face.

“I admit you have your uses,” Napoleon admitted. “But, Waverly's orders. Do what we can to get you...” He frowned at Illya's entire being. “A little more chilled out.”

“I do not chill,” Illya protested.

“We bought you an outfit,” Gaby said, holding up the bag she'd had sitting by the chair. She and Napoleon had had perhaps too much fun finding clothing suitable for taking Illya out to a proper dance club – they'd finally, reluctantly, settled on something they thought they could actually convince him to wear, as neither of them felt confident about their ability to wrestle him into an outfit.

Napoleon had suggested bringing knock-out drugs, but Gaby had scowled at him and threatened to let him handle the resulting paperwork with U.N.C.L.E.

“I would rather fight polar bear unarmed,” Illya said, flatly.

“We can arrange that,” Gaby told him, and held out the bag. “Or you can be the one to tell Waverly that you're refusing this mission, which means you won't get assigned any more fieldwork.”

Illya didn't move for a long moment, then, when it looked like he might give in, he brightened. “I can work in lab, alone?”

“No,” Napoleon said. “Get dressed. We're going to dinner, then we're going out.” 

Illya scowled at them both, then his shoulders dropped and he took the bag Gaby was still holding out for him. “Fight bear naked,” he muttered.

“Can still be arranged,” Napoleon reminded him.


End file.
